Saturday, May 27, 2006

You gotta fight, for your right, to ... be employed

LUSH's Rubenesque manager (of the milky white, rosey-cheeked sort) regularly pesters me to work for her (granted, in a joking, unintrusive manner). I'm a bit reluctant because she turned down Readerdroid, and my skills are limited to the squat and point variety. But I would love to work a part-time shift and start earning my keep and rely less on my mother's saintly generosity. [*Update: That prospect seems to have to be pushed back because my marks just came in and there appears to be some A chips that are hankering to be cashed in at the Post-Natal Pavilion. Shocking, yes. But to whom?]

I'll only need it for the coming fall semester though because I have my eye on that TA position my kindly old professor offered me. (I totally backdoored it and fucked over proper applicants.) It's not that I believe working is a novel concept; my parents simply don't want anything to get in the way of my schooling. Understandable *cue sullen Soviet trumpeteering*. But mooching off them is getting to be a most tired enterprise and I don't necessarily feel proud of myself; it leaves a sordid taste in my (hyper-Dentyned) mouth. I've never exactly felt entitled to their big hearts, yet the fact remains: they don't want me working at no minimum wage-paying hole-in-the-wall (perched by a strip club, no less). So it seems that I have only one option: work in secret to wean myself from their bountiful teat. How urban 007!

That, or spend frivolously on eBay until they cut me off cold turkey. Sounds like a plan, marzipan.


I love the volume of female-as-protagonist movies out right now. I saw The Notorious Bettie Page a few weeks ago, starring the double-take-twin Gretchen Mol, and I'm probably going to go see Lady Vengeance by Old Boy-director Chan Wook Park tomorrow. Although, genres apart (the Mary Harron vehicle being a non-judgmental biopic), the polished core themes relish in grace and a noticeably feminine complexity. The people are flawed, yes. They are sympathetic, sure. They are portrayed the way any generically good character ought to be shown. But it is more than that. And simpler than that. What appears on celluloid is a kind of quiet optimism -- and bull-headed determinedness -- that idyllically unites women, if only cinematographically.


MArt teases me about not ever having watched Casablanca. Hey, I know it's always on television, but I don't do the tube. So he gleefully recites Bogie's lines to me in an effort to rub it in. ("That's Rosebud to you!" I feebly try countering with my Citizen Kane-o-dex.)

Wow, and with that, I just pieced together the reason he likes calling me, "kiddo." Man, sure took me long enough to figure out; I've always considered it curiously paedophiliac. The nickname's not too eye-roll inducing though: Who wouldn't want to be Lauren Bacall? Hubba, hubba.

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